


Lost Splendour

by Megnog



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Revolution, Russia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:08:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24108016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megnog/pseuds/Megnog
Summary: Our favorite celestial beings find themselves in early-1900s St. Petersburg, Russia. They dine with royalty and mad monks, and have more to do with the Revolution than the history books tell you.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you @chris_trollfer for the prompt and research help. This work is dedicated to you. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do writing it! :D
> 
> DISCLAIMER: Any resemblance to fictional characters, living or dead, is purely intentional.
> 
> Thank you Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, Michael Sheen and David Tennant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***THE REST WILL BE POSTED IN ITS ENTIRETY. APOLOGIES, BUT I WILL ENDEAVOR TO MAKE IT WORTH THE WAIT.***

London 1905

Crowley watched a bead of sweat trickle down Aziraphale’s left temple from behind his sunglasses. Summer soothed his cold-blooded nature, but the demon hated when his enemy was uncomfortable. It made the angel cranky.

“Let’s go swimming,” Crowley said, standing up from their bench in Berkeley Square. Aziraphale followed suit with an air of jaundice, and removed his brown bowler hat to mop at his face with a tartan handkerchief.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why? Modesty and all that holy nonsense? For Satan’s sake, you’re melting like ice cream on the sun, and I’m booored. Haven’t had an assignment in weeks.”

“I like ice cream. Shall we get some?”

They walked through the crowded park which was covered in picnic blankets, little families, and yapping dogs towards the vendor. This Seurat painting was not Crowley’s scene. He considered tempting the angel into going for a swim via demonic miracle, but it went against an unwritten and unspoken rule of their “arrangement.” Not that the demon cared about rules. When the angel seemed more content as he relished the cold treat, the serpent of Eden pressed further.

“I said ‘no’ Crowley. I haven’t gone swimming since 1896, and I don’t intend to take it up again because you’re ‘booored.’ Out of the question. Lord, I don’t know why I agreed to meet up, this has been a complete waste of time.”

“I just bought you an ice cream! What happened anyway? You used to love the seaside and taking a dip if I recall.”

“There was a rather unfortunate incident involving a bathing machine that I wish not to discuss.”

The demon suppressed a smirk so that he looked more constipated than overcome with disbelief and amusement. The angel still did not suspect that Crowley had anything to do with that, nor was he over it after nearly a decade. He considered confessing, but was not in the mood for a swift discorporation.

“Then let’s go to Russia. We can make snow angels if you like.”

Aziraphale finally cracked a smile and snorted around his spoon. He considered the idea as he savoured the raspberry confection.

“Why not? I could go for some borscht, and a holiday in St. Petersburg would be lovely this time of year.”

A.Z Fell closed his bookshop until further notice, and soared across Europe with his fiendish friend that night. Black and white wings carried a bored demon and a dimwitted angel towards Russia in the midst of a revolution. What could possibly go wrong?


	2. Chapter 2

St. Petersburg, Russia 1905

They landed on a bridge over the Griboidov embankment as dawn broke. Aziraphale insisted on the scenic route, of course. Crowley pretended to be annoyed, but the view of the earth was truly resplendent from just below the clouds. Pity it would all be a pile of molten goo someday.

Aziraphale rolled his neck and shoulder blades as he tucked his wings away. His demonic counterpart did the same, and with a snap they became visible to the human eye again wearing upper class clothing more fitting to their new location. Endless rows of elegant stone buildings surrounded them; the Yusupov Palace just up ahead, and the water flowing into the Neva River from the canal below them as they rested against the rail by two lion statues. The angel broke the silence after their landing, pleased to see his breath in the breezy, early morning air.

“This area looks so grand in all the paintings. I forgot how small it was in person! Still lovely, though, wouldn’t you agree? Crowley?”

Crowley was sniffing at the air like a wolf on the prowl, but chalked the odor up to the abrupt shift in atmosphere. Not something evil. There was nothing wrong with evil, mind you, but he was on holiday.

“I can smell the vodka, it’s calling my name, angel.”

“My dear fellow, it’s far too early, and the cafes will open soon. You must try the syrniki…”

He couldn’t tell you if the idiot ever stopped nattering about traditional Russian cuisine as they eventually found their way to a high-end cafe known as ‘Dominique’. Something happened here recently. Something bad. If only he read the newspapers more often, or read at all for that matter. Rolling his eyes as he accepted a bite of something he was pretty sure was just a Russian crepe, he overheard an elderly gentleman at the next table over mutter ‘bloody Sunday.’ That rang a distant bell.

“Excuse me, sir, but what is bloody about it? It’s Saturday, by the way.” All he got was a confused and disturbed look in response. Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow as he finished the last morsel of the fruity, syrupy mess on his plate. Crowley leaned in.

“Do you remember what Paris smelled like during the Revolution? When I had to save your arse from discorporation courtesy large head-cutting machine?

“Probably like rat poo, I was in the Bastille.”

“No, I mean...Really, angel? It doesn’t smell like Satan himself took a big...Poo here to you?”

Perhaps only demons could smell misery. He missed the smell of love, if he was being honest. Far more overpowering. He was considering miracling up some nose plugs for the duration of their stay when he decided he wanted to go home now.

“We only just arrived, Crowley! You’re being ridiculous. Now, I’m going to visit the cathedrals, but I know you can’t come, consecrated ground and all that, but why don’t you do whatever it is you want to do besides go home, and meet me at, say, the Bronze Horseman statue by noon?”

The demon agreed. One angelic rescue every couple centuries was quite enough if a demon knew what was good for them. Hell wasn’t known for sending rude notes as reprimands.


End file.
